


One of Those Days

by AkuChibi



Series: A Mess You'd Wear with Pride [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adamant Aftermath, Attempting the fandom, Here Lies the Abyss Spoilers, Introspection, M/M, and possible building for later, it's just introspection, it's pretty bad, nothing really happens, rambling thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 17:56:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3497537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkuChibi/pseuds/AkuChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would he say? 'I'm sorry, I can't be the Inquisitor today, my hand hurts.' No - he can't say that.</p><p>Some days find you down on your luck. If you're lucky, there's someone willing to help pull you back to your feet.</p><p>Minor Here Lies the Abyss spoilers. Adamant spoilers. Aftermath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One of Those Days

**Author's Note:**

> There's really no reason for this to exist except I was trying to get more into Dragon Age and the fandom and everything, and my mind decided to go ahead with his. I'm not sure how it is and I'll probably wind up deleting it when I'm not so loopy on my migraine meds, but we'll see how it goes, I guess. If people like it, it can stay, if not, back to the drawing board xD I will try to write something good for these two, I swear! One day. Ugh. I just need to get out of this rut I'm in. It's terrible.
> 
> Anyway - this features Male Rogue Trevelyan, paired with Dorian. Takes place after Here Lies the Abyss. Yes, it's the same Trevelyan from my 'This Isn't Kirkwall' story. This takes place in the same universe, just before Fenris arrived at Skyhold in the first place, if you're chronologically inclined. 
> 
> This is my first attempt at writing primarily for Dorian and Schuyler (my rogue Trevelyan) instead of Hawke and Fenris. Even those are hard - being new to a fandom is daunting. Anyway, I do hope it sounds okay. If there's something amiss, or something I should take out or add to, please let me know!
> 
> Again, though, this story really has no reason to exist.

It’s turning out to be one of those days.

Being the Inquisitor is tough on the best of days, even before he was officially named ‘the Inquisitor’, back when he was just the ‘Herald of Andraste’. He went from being a prisoner to being looked to for guidance and advice. It seemed to happen overnight, simply because of a little mark on his hand. The green glow is as unsettling now as it was then. Lately it’s been aching. The more rifts he closes, the closer he gets to stopping Corypheus, the more it seems to hurt.

He tells no one about this, though. What would he say? _I’m sorry, I can’t be the Inquisitor today, my hand hurts._

No – he can’t say that. He must be in charge, always. He must always appear foolhardy and strong in the face of certain chaos. He must continue to beat the odds.

This is fine, he tells himself, until Adamant.

He was physically in the Fade. It is an experience he wishes to never repeat. The only way he can think to possibly describe it is a living nightmare. Demons everywhere, creatures, waiting to kill you at the first sign of vulnerability… it was a nightmare. Thinking back on it now, he still winces when he pictures Stroud’s face when he left him behind. The man was more than willing to die for him. It’s that kind of commitment that both flatters and terrifies him.

It was a hard choice to make, leaving Stroud behind. Both Stroud and Hawke volunteered, of course, but in the end he chose Stroud. He’s not even sure why he chose him at this point. Maybe because Hawke had someone to return to at the end of the day; he would be leaving Fenris behind if he stayed in the Fade. Or maybe he left Stroud behind for purely selfish reasons.

Should something happen to him, he’s sure Hawke would make a fine Inquisitor. Cassandra wanted him to be the Inquisitor in the first place. He was the Champion of Kirkwall. He would have no problems taking over should something happen to the Inquisitor.

There are many things Schuyler Trevelyan is uncertain of, but this is not one of those things. He knows Hawke would be fine in his current place, should the unthinkable happen. Except it’s not so unthinkable. He could die any day. Something abnormal could happen during the night – a sudden seizure, heart attack or stroke – and he would be dead. One slip-up on the battlefield, one misjudgment of a bandit’s abilities, or a Venatori’s strength in spells, and he could very easily die. He is only human, despite the hype about him lately.

He is only human – not a god, or a miracle. His abilities aren’t Maker-sent, or blessed upon him by Andraste. They are because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time… or perhaps the wrong place at the right time, who knows for sure? But he remembers what happened when the Breach opened, now. This is not a gift, but a curse. He picked up a glowing green orb and this is his punishment. This glowing, aching mark on his hand that crackles and spreads and clenches when he closes rifts.

Dorian shifts next to him. It is early morning, with sunlight barely slipping in from the balcony. Despite Dorian’s protests about slipping into domesticity, he _does_ like his quarters, and thus they spend nearly every night together here in Schuyler’s room. Occasionally Dorian will return to his own quarters, or fall asleep at his desk in the library, but usually they are always together these days, especially since Adamant.

The Tevinter mage has barely left his line of sight since then. Neither of them have commented on this in the week since they have been back in Skyhold, but they both know something has shifted.

It’s evident in the way Dorian sits bolt upright nearly every morning before looking over at him. It’s evident in the way Schuyler finds himself enveloped in loving arms nearly every night. It’s evident in the quick looks, stolen moments through Skyhold, moments together and rarely apart, more-so now than ever before.

It’s evident, but they do not speak of it.

“We are really going to have to talk about your curtains,” Dorian says through a yawn, and Schuyler looks down at him. He woke earlier and has been reading in bed while attempting to ignore the way his hand aches more and more. He carefully conceals the green mark beneath the covers and smiles down at his lover.

“I thought we agreed my taste was rather austere,” he says, closing his book and dropping on the small table on his side of the bed. It is barely large enough to hold such a book. He’s been trying to familiarize himself with the Fade, though, ever since Adamant. There was so much he saw there that he doesn’t understand, and pestering Solas with unending questions doesn’t seem like the best idea, so he has decided to investigate on his own, if able. So far he hasn’t found much of anything, but then it _has_ only been a week.

Though it feels like longer sometimes.

“There’s ‘austere’ and then there’s ‘refusing to block out any light at all’,” Dorian tells him as he pushes his arms under him, maneuvering into a half-sitting position with his back against the headboard. He rolls his head lazily toward Schuyler, light brown eyes bright in the warm glow of the early sun.

“I’m beginning to think you hate my curtains.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

“You can’t find one nice thing to say about them.”

“Yes I can.”

“Then tell me how much you adore them.”

“I don’t know if I’d go _that_ far,” Dorian says, waving a hand dismissively as he yawns again. His hair is all disheveled and his eyes are bright and warm, and Schuyler likes waking up to this every morning. It is truly magnificent. And terrifying. Terrifying because he is only human and this could all end so very, very easily.

He isn’t aware he is frowning until Dorian settles him with a ‘look’.

“Something on your mind, dear Inquisitor?”

Schuyler scowls. Dorian knows he doesn’t like being called that, especially when they are alone. Dorian laughs, shaking his head, and sits up more fully now so they are at roughly the same height. A hand not as callused as his own settles atop the curve of his knee.

“Tell me what troubles you, _Amatus_.”

Schuyler still doesn’t know what that means, but he knows it’s something good. Dorian’s eyes soften every time he says it. “Nothing,” he says, shaking his head. “Just wondering how long we can linger here before Cassandra or Cullen come looking. Or Leliana. For all we know she could be in this room as we speak.”

The spymaster is certainly good at her job, after all.

“You locked the door, didn’t you?”

“When has that stopped them before?”

Once, in Haven, he had his cabin locked as he was practicing with his daggers inside and didn’t wish to be interrupted. Since he rarely locked his door, wanting to be open to everyone, they thought something was wrong and literally broke down his door when he didn’t answer at the first knock. Since then it’s been hit or miss with his locks.

“One would think a locked door would mean ‘do not enter’.”

“You’d think so,” Schuyler agrees with a smirk, noticing the irritated furrow of Dorian’s brows. The hand slides off his knee as the mage climbs out of bed. They both got in late last night and were too tired to do much other than sleep, so they still wear the same clothes as the night before.

A bath wouldn’t be remiss, either.

His hand throbs again. The faint green glow slips through the covers and he presses his palm flat against his thigh, hiding it from sight. Dorian is busy tugging on his shoes and lacing them, sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to the Inquisitor.

Schuyler tilts his head back against the headboard and closes his eyes.

It’s quiet until Dorian stands from the bed. He can feel the mage’s eyes on him as he presses his palm more firmly against his thigh, hiding the throbbing green glow from sight. “Join me for breakfast?”

“Sure,” Schuyler replies. “Give me a few minutes to get ready. I’ll meet you down there.”

He opens his eyes and finds Dorian eying him strangely. He smiles back. Finally Dorian sighs and nods, turning to take his leave. Schuyler watches him go before he releases a slow breath and pulls his left hand out from under the covers, holding the flashing palm in front of his eyes. With each little crackle of green light the pain intensifies.

It does this sometimes. It will hurt for a while and then stop as though it never ached in the first place, until the next bout of pain hits. Or until they are within range of rifts to close. Sometimes it is an early warning system and sometimes it is merely an inconvenience.

Releasing a slow sigh, he gets out of bed and proceeds to change his clothes and gets dressed for the day in his usual Inquisitor attire. He tried wearing something different once, but Josephine scolded him severely for attempting such a thing, so he just does as she asks now. It is easier than butting his head against a wall for she can be just as stubborn as himself.

A few minutes later, after running his hand under cold water in his bathing room, he manages to finally compose himself and ignore the ache which has lessened to a dull throb, annoying but ignorable. He then ventures out of his quarters and into the main hall, where lines of tables wait for him. The scent of food is strong in the air and he realizes how hungry he is, his mouth quickly salivating at the pleasant aroma. He finds Dorian at a table, sitting with Varric and The Iron Bull, and he quickly joins them, sitting between Varric and Dorian while Bull sits across from them, practically hogging three chairs’ worth of space on his own. He is a giant, but that’s partially what Schuyler likes about him. He can be very intimidating but deep down, Schuyler considers him a very close friend.

“So then Fenris is all ‘I can’t believe I’m working with mages’,” Varric is saying when he joins them, flashing Schuyler a quick smile. “Hawke didn’t seem to like his particular brand of snark for a while. Still hard to believe they ended up together sometimes.”

The Iron Bull laughs heartily, taking a long chug of something frothy. It’s that stuff that burns all the way down and Schuyler suppresses a cough just at the mere thought of it, the memory of it destroying the nerves in the lining of his throat. After killing their first high dragon, they celebrated with some. His throat has never been the same.

“What’s on the agenda for today, Boss?” Bull asks, putting the large mug back down on the table. It’s very, very early to be drinking, but a week ago they were physically in the Fade – himself, Dorian, Bull, and Vivienne – so he couldn’t blame anyone for celebrating upon their return. They finally made it back to Skyhold not even two days ago, and have barely had enough downtime to even rest. They deserve a good break and if that means drinking starts at the crack of dawn, so be it.

Schuyler chews on his lower lip. He’s not sure what their plans are for today. “We’ll take a day off,” he says even though there’s already a knot in his stomach at the very idea of doing such a thing. So much needs to be done, so many people need to be helped, that he can’t just sit by and relax for a day without feeling completely and utterly guilty. He can sleep when he’s dead, after all. Right now there’s work to be done.

But he can at least let them rest, even if he himself can’t. They can rest and he can plan and plot and practice and do whatever it takes to help stop Corypheus.

Dorian is eyeing him strangely again. He can feel the heat of his gaze on the right side of his face and carefully avoids looking in that direction as he reaches for some freshly made bread, still warm.

His mind is racing right now, and his hand is still throbbing distantly. There’s so much to do and so much to worry about, and there’s not enough time in the world to clear everything up. There’s no way he can even broach this topic, either. Any of these topics – the mark on his hand hurting, the woes of everyone in Thedas, and the face he’s half-certain he won’t be surviving the end of this.

He says none of this to anyone, of course. Whatever happens will happen. He must appear as though he knows exactly what he is doing so everyone else can rest easy knowing he is making the hard decisions. It’s times like this he wishes he could hunt Hawke back down and tell him to take over as Inquisitor because he’s certain the mage would be much better at this than himself at the moment. Alas, he can’t go handing over his job to someone else. He knows Hawke doesn’t want to be Inquisitor any more than he himself does.

And so it’s another day of silently wondering how long he’s going to live, and if his hand will choose to flare up again or finally die down.

Yes, it’s definitely turning into one of those days.

xXx

Dorian is upset with him. At first it doesn’t appear like he is, but then he’s standoffish in his little section of the library, critiquing every book he can find. Finally it’s revealed he’s cranky because he was worried during Adamant, when they went into the Fade. Worried when Schuyler sent him ahead and then didn’t follow immediately after. Not all of them made it out; perhaps that’s the worst of it, in Dorian’s mind. In anyone’s mind, really. The fact not everyone lived.

The fact it could have been either of them.

Dorian says it is a miracle Schuyler made it out alive. Remarkable for any of them, a miracle for him. Schuyler’s not so sure about that, but he smiles and pulls Dorian close, their lips meeting for the sweetest of kisses even as Dorian scowls.

“I’m trying to be angry with you,” he says stubbornly, in that accent of his. “Do you know how hard this makes it?”

“Makes it or makes you?” Schuyler retorts with a grin, and Dorian smiles.

“You should know better than to ask such a ridiculous question,” he says, fingers trailing briefly across the bare skin of Schuyler’s fingers, before quickly slipping away as his gaze darts around. No one looks in this section of the library very often. It’s a nice little dark corner. Plus, it’s no secret they’re together. People tend to at least _attempt_ to have the appearance of giving them privacy. Nevertheless, Dorian isn’t as open about it as Schuyler is, and that’s fine.

“Oh?” he asks, pulling away, quirking a brow at the mage. “And why’s that?”

Now, assured no one is looking, Dorian grins that little seductive smile of his. “I’m always hard.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” Schuyler says, grinning back, and the two share a quiet little laugh.

Footsteps echo up the stairs off to the side. Dorian straightens and looks over Schuyler’s shoulder at the approaching figure. “Cassandra, how lovely to see you.”

Cassandra rolls her eyes. Schuyler doesn’t need to be facing her to know this. He turns to face the Seeker. “Is something amiss?”

“We have received invitation to the Empresses party,” she says. “Meet us in the War Room when you are ready.”

With that she gives them both a quick once-over – a ‘I know what you two are up to but I shall pretend as though I don’t’ look – and turns to depart. Schuyler watches her go before turning back toward Dorian. Dorian’s smile is gone. He finds he rather misses it.

“Back to business, I suppose,” Dorian says with false cheer.

He’s heard the real thing, after all. The cheer and relief and joy and everything else mixed into his voice. He knows the difference.

“Looks like it,” Schuyler says with a slow nod. He doesn’t want to leave any more than Dorian wants him to, he’s sure, though Dorian would never admit to any such nonsense. “We’ll have dinner. To discuss the party.”

“As you wish,” Dorian says with a nod, smiling briefly. “I do need to get another look at your curtains.”

“I knew you secretly loved them.”

“They are too austere for my taste. But fret not, Inquisitor Trevelyan; we shall endeavor to remedy this mistake.”

Schuyler laughs and turns to take his leave.

“Take care… _Amatus_ ,” Dorian says after him, in the barest of whispers. Perhaps Schuyler isn’t meant to hear the words, but he does, and he turns to flash a quick smile at the mage before he departs down the stairs.

xXx

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” comes Dorian’s welcome voice from the doorway. Schuyler glances up from the desk in his room to find the mage standing there with a hand behind his back, leaning carefully against the doorframe so the post appears almost natural, but Schuyler knows otherwise.

Dorian is planning something.

He smiles. “Of course not. I was just going over details for the party.”

“Oh, I do so _love_ parties,” Dorian says with mock cheer.

“Now, now – they can’t _all_ be bad.”

Dorian quirks a dark brow. “You are aware we are attending this party to stop an assassination attempt, yes? This is business, not pleasure.”

“Are any parties truly for pleasure?”

“That depends who you ask,” Dorian says. “Mother always _loved_ parties. Father treated them like a business deal, all work and strategy. Mother seemed to think it was a game of ‘dress up Dorian’.”

Schuyler laughs. “I bet you were cute. I bet she even wiped nonexistent smudges off your face with her thumb. Her very wet thumb.”

Dorian scowls, and Schuyler knows he is right. “I’ll have you know these ‘smudges’ weren’t non-existent. I was rather rambunctious as a child. Too curious for my own good, according to her.”

Schuyler shrugs, smirking. “Same thing. What’s that you have behind your back?”

“Nothing.”

“Lying, really, Dori?”

Dorian _melts_. It is particularly satisfying to see. Schuyler rarely uses that particular nickname because he does not wish for it to lose its charm, but when he does use it, Dorian becomes hot putty in his hands. Dorian pulls the bottle of wine from behind his back.

“Not the best, but tremendously better than that swill in the tavern, I assure you,” Dorian tells him. “I thought we might celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?”

Dorian shrugs. “A lot of things could be celebrated. Pick something.”

“Anything for fine wine, hmm?”

“If you are disagreeing, I will take my wine elsewhere.”

“No, no – tongues definitely need loosened.”

Dorian scowls but he’s also smiling as he steps further into the room, finally. Schuyler stands from his desk and approaches the mage, reaching for the wine. It’s this fine dark color and the bottle is surprisingly cold. Dorian prefers the art of necromancy but he’s rather adept at elemental magic as well.

More than once Schuyler has caught a chill on the battlefield and glanced over to see his opponent encased in ice.

“So, what exactly are we celebrating? Or are we drinking just to drink?”

“I like that,” Dorian says with a nod. “Just to drink.”

Schuyler pops open the bottle of wine. As he’s handing the bottle back to Dorian, his hand throbs. It is sudden, and painful, and he nearly drops the bottle. He’s not sure why he was holding it with his left hand anyway. Perhaps because Dorian is to his left and it seemed easier, but he certainly regrets it now. The pain died down hours ago; it seems to have returned suddenly. Days like these are the worst.

Dorian eyes him strangely as he catches the bottle. “Is something wrong?”

“No, everything’s fine.”

“Lying, really, _Amatus?_ ”

Schuyler shakes his head. “No. Of course not.”

“Tell me. Or would you prefer wine to loosen the tongue?”

Schuyler sighs. “My hand hurts.”

“Your hand?”

Schuyler holds out his hand, palm open, showing the green light faintly emanating from the mark on his hand. His fingers curl instinctively as the pain throbs again. Dorian’s sweet lips twist into a frown as he steps a little closer, putting the bottle down on the desk.

“I thought this only happened when rifts were nearby?”

“Usually,” Schuyler agrees. “But it’s… hard to explain. It just hurts sometimes.”

“Sometimes? So this is not the first time?”

“Um… no?”

“And you have hidden this from me? From everyone?”

“What am I supposed to say? ‘I have to take a sick day, my hand hurts’. No, that won’t do, now will it?”

Dorian scowls. “You could at least mention this to _someone_. Preferably the man who shares your bed every night.”

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

Dorian sighs heavily, shaking his head. “ _Kaffas_ … _I_ worry about how much I worry about you, sometimes.”

“Is that supposed to make sense?”

“You’re a grown man. You don’t need to tell me everything.”

“You just wish I would,” Schuyler says hesitantly, hoping he’s reading things right. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think it was important. There’s nothing anyone can do, anyway. It just hurts sometimes. It’ll pass. It’s not important.”

“If it were happening to me, would you say it wasn’t important?”

The question makes him frown. “What?”

“If it were happening to me, would you-”

“That’s ridiculous. It’s not happening to you, it’s happening to _me_ , and I’ve already been told the mark is permanent. The pain comes and goes. Let’s not dwell on what-ifs.”

Dorian watches him for a moment, before he sighs and picks up the bottle of wine again. “Perhaps a drink will help.”

“I think it might,” Schuyler says, smiling faintly.

They both know there is still much to discuss. Schuyler knows Dorian won’t drop the subject, and he knows Dorian will almost certainly attempt to get him drunk enough to properly discuss it. If that is the case, he will be disappointed, as Schuyler knows little about this mark on his own. He knows only what he’s already told Dorian.

The pain comes and goes.

Sometimes it lingers, painful and throbbing. Sometimes it’s perfectly fine until they get near a rift. Sometimes there’s no real reason for the mark to be painful, and to be flashing as it is.

And it’s just one of those days.

 


End file.
